Take my pain away
by silvermoongirl10
Summary: Sequel to my AU Lasting Friendships. John struggles with the memories of the war and Sherlock steps up to help his best friend. Not slash and mentions of suicide.


It had been five months since John had been invalid home and Sherlock was keeping a close eye on his friend. Because he remembered the difficulty in which John had adjusted to being home after his first tour, and now being suddenly removed from the war because of injury Sherlock knew John would feel like he had no control. Sherlock knew John was finding it hard and also knew John was hiding how he was feeling. So even though Sherlock would have rather had John at the flat all day helping him with cases and experiments and making tea he had encouraged John to take a job at one of the local hospitals A&E's.

Sherlock was sat in his armchair plucking the strings on his violin and heard John moving around his room. John always kept to the same routine every morning when he had a morning shift at the hospital so Sherlock knew it would be exactly twenty five minutes until John walked down the stairs and walked into the kitchen to make some toast and tea. So once John entered the room without looking up Sherlock said "we have enough milk for tea this morning but you might want to buy some milk on the way home"

"And what" demanded John crossing his arms, "is stopping _you_ from going to the shop to buy some? You never sleep and lots of shops are open throughout the night so you could have gone"

Sherlock looked up at his friend, "Shopping is-"

"Boring. I know"

"If you know why do you continue to complain that I don't do any shopping?" asked Sherlock with eyebrows raised.

"Because...oh never mind" sighed John as he turned away and walked into the kitchen. Smirking Sherlock went back to plucking the strings on his violin.

"John pass me the newspaper!" shouted Sherlock, strangely there was no reply. "John are you _that_ sensitive?! I need you to pass me the newspaper!" when there was no answer Sherlock heaved a loud sigh and walked towards the kitchen "John!" when he entered the small room John wasn't there. Sherlock looked around and saw the clock; John would have left an hour ago. "How infuriating of him not to tell me he was leaving" sniped Sherlock before he turned back to the living room. He had no case and no one to make him tea with John at work and not wanting to call Mrs Hudson up because that would just lead to the common lecture 'I'm not your housekeeper'. So he made his way up to John's bedroom and opened the desk drawer where he knew the gun was kept. John and Mrs Hudson had driven him to boredom so Sherlock felt like shooting the walls as pay back. But opening the drawer he found a note in John's distinctive handwriting.

_Nice try, but I've hidden the gun so you won't shoot the damn walls! Maybe if you're THAT bored you could get yourself off of your lazy butt and do the shopping for once in your life!_

_John._

_P.S. I've used the last of the milk, annoying isn't it?_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and screwed up the note in frustration and threw it in the direction of the bin not caring if it went in or not. He then paused and thought where John would have hidden the gun, he wouldn't have taken it to work and he wouldn't have had Mrs Hudson hide it because she hated the thing. So where could it be? If John was here Sherlock would have easily been able to deduce where John had hidden it, but John wasn't here so it was more of a challenge.

After searching the flat for thirty minutes Sherlock was still no closer to finding the gun. He had even checked his sock index to see if it had been disturbed and too make sure John hadn't thought of leaving it in plain sight. He hadn't and the gun wasn't there. Sherlock was angry now; John had never been able to hide anything from him ever since they were at school together. Last year Sherlock had even guessed what John's nightmares from the war were about when he had been home on leave despite John trying to hide them from Sherlock.

Sherlock sighing flopped down onto his armchair and tried to observe the room to see if John had moved anything. When Mrs Hudson came up the stairs with her usual cheerful greeting it only aggravated Sherlock more.

"What's got you so angry then dear?" she asked standing opposite Sherlock,

"John has moved the gun and I can't find it! John has _never_ been good at hiding anything so why is he today?!" exclaimed Sherlock standing up and began to pace the length of the room.

"At least the walls are having a break. Why don't sit down and I'll make you some tea" offered Mrs Hudson.

"We don't have any milk!" yelled Sherlock standing by the window.

"You could always go to the shop. Poor John is always going there in all weathers even if his shoulder hurts and his leg plays up. But I'm sure you'll find something to do" commented Mrs Hudson before she turned and began heading to the flat door.

"I _will_ find that gun!" growled Sherlock with narrowed eyes.

"Of course dear" smiled Mrs Hudson, she left the flat. After she had shut the door and was walking down the stairs she chuckled. That morning John had begged her to hide the gun and even though she hated it, she had to admit knowing something Sherlock didn't was quite a satisfying feeling.

####

John's day had started like any other and even seemed like it could be the best this week, when Sherlock had texted him demanding to know where he had hidden the gun. John had ignored the text and chucking had carried on with his work.

But everything soon changed.

It started when the A&E where he worked had an advanced warning of multiple people wounded in a gas explosion were arriving in minutes. John had been fine, he ordered the team of nurses on what was needed to be done to prepare and promptly had patients transferred to wards to clear the A&E. But when the first few patients arrived John stood frozen and for a few seconds he could hear and smell the war he had left five months ago. A nurse called his name and he shook himself to clear his head, there was no time to let the memories take over.

Soon he settled into a routine, he would find a patient not already being seen to by another Doctor and he would take a deep breath to push the memories away and then he would set to work. It all seemed to be going fine, but then John found himself stood beside a man in his mid twenties with a wounded leg and while John worked on the man, Brian. He remembered his friend Max Roberts, who had been shot in the leg and then killed as John had tried to help him. John rubbed the shoulder that had been shot while he had been helping Max.

"John?" asked Daisy a nurse John considered a good friend, "are you alright?"

"Yeah. Fine" responded John, he chose to ignore the dubious look Daisy gave him and instead concentrated on mending Brian's leg.

"Doc my leg is gonna be fine right?" pleaded Brian looking up at John with wide eyes.

"It's fine, give it a few weeks and it will be as if you had never hurt it" commented John taking off his rubber gloves.

"Thanks Doc" sighed Brian in relief.

John nodded and left Brian in Daisy's capable hands and made a hasty retreat from the nurse as he hid the tremors in his left hand by putting his hand in his pocket. He then learnt there were no more incoming patients and his shift was over, so he made his way out of the hospital and decided to walk home.

By the time Baker Street was in sight John was limping slightly and the world seemed to be against him, because on his walk home cars kept backfiring and people were bumping into his wounded shoulder. And to make things worse he thought he kept seeing Max. Halfway down Baker Street he thought he saw Max at the exact same time a car backfired, John crouched and ran the rest of the way home. Gasping he slammed the door shut and leaned against it panting trying to catch his breath. He waited for Mrs Hudson to come out of her flat to see why he had slammed the door, but she didn't come into the hallway so John figured she must have been out. With shaky legs he pushed himself away from the door and began climbing up the stairs. Grasping onto the banister with a vicelike grip until his knuckles were white. He pushed open the door into 221B and was met with silence. Sherlock wasn't there. John took a few deep breaths so try and calm his breathing and went into the kitchen to make some coffee knowing he couldn't have tea because there was no milk, realizing he forgot to buy some on the way home. He took a mug from the cupboard but his hand was shaking so much he dropped it and fell to the floor and shattered.

"Damn it!" cursed John running his shaking hands through his hair. He felt the silence starting to get to him so he rushed upstairs to his room and threw open the window hoping the sounds of London would be enough to ground him. His knees buckled and he found himself sat on the floor leaning against his bed. The memories started to become stronger and even though he knew he was looking at his room it still changed into the hot, sandy dessert from the war and his nightmares. John wrapped his arms around his legs tightly and rested his forehead on his knees muttering to himself "you're not there, you're in London. Safe" but it didn't help. Soon enough he was overwhelmed by the memories and his own guilt from the deaths of the soldiers he had tried to save. He saw their faces and heard their pleas for him to help them. John could only squeeze his eyes shut and choke out "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry".

####

Sherlock entered the kitchen through the landing and knowing John would be home sat in his armchair he called out, "look I went to the shop and it was everything I said it was! Dull and boring! But I bought six bottles of milk! I hope that _satisfies_ you!" Sherlock then slammed the fridge shut and then as he walked around the table he spotted the shattered mug. "John?"

Sherlock walked into the living room and found John wasn't sat in his usual spot. _His shift is over; even if he decided to walk home he should have been back by now. The shattered mug proves he came home; he dropped the mug, no sign of a struggle. So if he left it was voluntarily. His coat is on the back of the chair so he must still be here. He has to be in his room._ With this thought Sherlock ran up the stairs and without knocking burst into John's room.

The sight that met him made his stomach feel as if it had been twisted. John was curled up, leaned against his bed, muttering to himself while crying.

"John?" asked Sherlock softly, he didn't very often show his emotions, only John ever saw them.

But John continued to mutter to himself.

Sherlock knelt beside John and gently placed a hand on John's uninjured shoulder and heard John mutter "I'm sorry Max I tried I really did". Sherlock frowned, something must have happened to this Max person the day John was injured. That was all Sherlock could find out, he could have found out more but seeing John's plain refusal to talk about Max made Sherlock stop himself from gathering any information.

"John look at me you're safe in _London_" Sherlock firmly but gently stated.

John peeked his eyes over his knees and turned his head so he could look at Sherlock, and despite Sherlock claiming he didn't have a heart John's next words made his heart clench. "Sherlock, help me"

"What can I do?" asked Sherlock, almost pleading. He knew some soldiers couldn't deal with coming home and the memories from war too much to bear and so they committed suicide. That was why Sherlock had been keeping a close eye on John, he didn't want to come home and find John had killed himself. John had survived the war and Sherlock didn't want to lose his best friend to the memories and nightmares.

"Don't know" croaked John, "just make it _stop_"

"Make what stop?" begged Sherlock,

"I can't do this Sherlock, I _can't_" whispered John clenching his eyes shut.

"John open your eyes. John _look at me_" commanded Sherlock, John flickered his eyes open to meet Sherlock's. "Listen to me John; you can make it through this. You _will_ make it through this"

"It's a good thing I moved the gun from the desk" admitted John softly.

"What?" gasped Sherlock having an idea as to what John meant.

"If I hadn't hid it, I don't know what you would have found when you came home" said John.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he was frozen in shock, something that may have started as a game on John's part this morning had inadvertently saved his life. Sherlock shuddered realizing how close he had come to losing his best friend.

"Your therapist is an idiot and a complete waste of time but you _need_ to talk John. What happened to Max?" demanded Sherlock gently. John's eyes widened, but seeing Sherlock's determined look. John began to tell his friend what happened the day he was shot, the events taking place before his eyes.

Sherlock took one of John's hands and squeezed it comfortingly. He closed his eyes and could see what John was describing to him and it made his heart clench further.

"Then I pulled myself up and I saw more blood on Max and when I looked closer I could see his unseeing eyes looking up at me. He was...dead" finished John matter of factly.

"Max's death wasn't your fault John" stated Sherlock.

"That maybe, but I've never stopped feeling guilty" replied John quietly.

"You said Max was originally shot in the leg?" John nodded, "he died and you've felt guilty that must be why you suffered from the physcomatic limp!"

"Guess so" mused John looking at his leg. He then told Sherlock what happened at the hospital during his shift.

Sherlock looked at his friend for a moment and then said, "Don't worry John you will be fine"

"How can you be so sure?" asked John meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"Because I know you. That and I'm the genius" smirked Sherlock,

John snorted in amusement, "right". Sherlock relaxed seeing John start to calm down and uncurl himself.

####

The next day John had another morning shift at the hospital and Sherlock walked with him despite John's complaints. Sherlock didn't follow John into the hospital but watched and assured himself that John would be just fine, it might take time. But John would get there. And Sherlock would solve cases with John's input, and John would write the cases on his blog while Sherlock would complain about the blog. So their lives would continue as normal (or as normal for them as it got).

**The End.**


End file.
